


The World of Management (Or, Harry Potter and the Office Romance)

by Moonflower_Rose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Laundry Kink, M/M, Ministry of Magic, Obsessive-Compulsive, Office Sex, Slow Burn, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 13:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13459152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonflower_Rose/pseuds/Moonflower_Rose
Summary: Draco Malfoy is the heart and soul of the Department of Magical Games and Sport. The only thing standing in the way of professional bliss is his boss. And Harry Potter.





	The World of Management (Or, Harry Potter and the Office Romance)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for hd_smoochfest 2012 on LiveJournal. Prompt 122, for Wendypops.

_October 3, 2011_

 

“Morgan – report!”

Morgan pressed himself even more closely against the wall, and raised a pair of purple opera glasses to his face. A row of small, golden letters along the handle caught the light: WWW.

“Well...I can see the Undersecretary...”

Draco blew an impatient breath through clenched teeth. “Of course you can, you twit. That’s why we’re here, after all. What colour are his robes?”

Morgan squinted, and pressed the binoculars hard into his sockets. “The brown. With the cream pinstripe.”

Well, that was a good start. “And the tie?”

“No tie.” There was a collective rustle of excitement behind Draco as his staff tried to stifle their glee behind their fingers. “...Wait. Actually...” Morgan lowered the opera glasses mournfully. “Actually, he’s got on a cravat.”

“Noooooo!” Marjorie Pierce turned immediately on her heel and trotted hurriedly toward the Ladies.

“Cravats,” said Wedderburn. “Are they bad?”

Wedderburn was new.

“Catastrophic, actually,” said Draco, strongly resisting the urge to follow Pierce to the loos to hide out until the worst was over. “Not only do they look appalling on a man with as scrawny a neck as the Undersecretary, but in the many years I’ve worked for him, nothing good has ever happened on a cravat day.”

“Why are we all whispering?” Draco didn’t need to, but he half turned anyway and found Potter standing behind them, calmly eating a pumpkin pasty. There were crumbs all the way down the front of his robes. Draco’s fingers twitched.

“Potter. Either it’s the end of the world, and your early arrival is one of the signs of the apocalypse, or the rest of us arrived so early for work that we actually ended up in the middle of yesterday.”

“Good morning to you too, Malfoy. I take it this is a spot of Scrivenation?”

“Scrivenation, sir?” Wedderburn asked, his eyes locked worshipfully on Potter’s becrumbed face. Or at least, that’s what Draco imagined was happening based on the breathless quality to Wedderburn’s voice. He was already turned back around to face Morgan.

“Scrivenation, the art of predicting the mood of Undersecretary Scrivener based on patterns of behaviour, such as wardrobe, choice of morning beverage, and whether or not there’s a staff meeting scheduled. It’s actually quite a bit more accurate than its magical cousin, Divination.” Wedderburn made a noise like a besotted sheep, and Malfoy shushed him.

“Yes, what’s he drinking, Morgan?”

Morgan and the opera glasses were pressed so closely together, there was a good chance the lad may end up with a bruised eye. “Definitely tea, Mr Malfoy, although he’s gone for the commemorative Uruguay mug from the 2005 World Cup instead of the china.”

That was a tricky one. On the one hand, it was his favourite mug. On the other, tea without proper china.

“What sort of tea?” Potter asked, around a mouthful of pasty.

“Dandelion, Mr Potter. At least, I think so.”

Potter winced, and gave Draco an apologetic look. “You’re doomed.”

Draco sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I want to see everyone in Meeting Room 4 immediately. You too, Pinhead,” Draco pointed a finger at Potter, who was already wandering off in the opposite direction. “You’re part of this department. If we’re doomed, you’re doomed.” Potter grinned, and what would ordinarily have been a charming, toothy white smile was instead distinctly pumpkin-coloured. 

“Spare me five minutes to get a cup of tea.”

“ _No_ , you might run into Scrivener.” Potter rolled his eyes, and sucked on his teeth noisily. “Ugh, really. You’re a disgrace.” Draco couldn’t stop his hand from twitching forward this time, and he brushed away the pastry flakes which had collected on Potter’s robes with a violent swish of his monogrammed handkerchief.

“You know, they say that grooming another person is a sign of intimacy and possession.”

Draco glared, with as much authority as he could manage while remaining aware that the tips of his ears were burning, and probably turning pink. “Where I come from, it’s a sign that the person requiring the grooming is an unprofessional mess, and who is devaluing the nearby real estate simply by being in its general proximity. Meeting Room 4, now please!”

With what he hoped was an appropriately authoritative flourish of robes, Draco made his way to the nearby meeting room to address his staff. Potter, to his immense satisfaction, seemed inclined to do what he was told for once, and had filed in behind Draco, closing the door after himself.

“Thank you all for your cooperation. As you know, today is the quarterly planning meeting, and the objective of one and all of us is to convince our dear Undersecretary that our various causes are worthy of funds from the budget. Given the circumstances, this will be a challenge to say the least.” He cast his eyes around the room sternly. “In order to improve our chances, we need to tighten up our game, otherwise this is going to be a very boring quarter for the Department of Magical Games and Sport, and the Auror Corps will have our collective arses for the rise in crimes committed by the general public due to sheer idleness. Worse still, we will be the laughingstock of the international magical sporting community, and I think we all had our fill of that during the infamous spring of 2004. So, without further ado: The Rules. Firstly, if you’re wearing purple, anything purple at all, please immediately charm that item _green_. Even if it’s your underpants, just err on the side of caution and make it green. Pierce?”

“Already sorted, Mr Malfoy,” said Pierce, now back from the loos, and clad head to toe in emerald. 

“Dickinson, you’re in charge of cream buns. Nothing with coconut, or orange rind. Jam is fine, with or without icing, but if you go _with_ icing, make sure it’s not coffee flavoured, and absolutely no powdered sugar. A reminder to all of you, keep your ‘umms’ and ‘errs’ to a minimum, eliminate them if you can, and please try to avoid using hard ‘k’ sounds, or the word ‘evidently’.” Draco eyed Wedderburn. “Perhaps you shouldn’t speak at all, Wedderburn. It’s your first time.”

Wedderburn nodded obediently, and clamped his lips together so tightly they turned white around the edges.

“Now, historically he likes to make decisions in patterns of three; two ‘no’s, then a ‘yes’. Make sure you make your real request _after_ two bogus or unimportant ones, no need to get too creative with your lies, as he’s probably not really listening to you anyway. No reports, memos or notes of any kind are to be posted on unlined parchment – blank paper makes him very, very angry. Are there any questions?”

Potter opened his mouth. “Good. If you’re having difficulty preparing, let me know. You have two hours – I’ll see you all in the board room at nine o’clock on the dot.”

The meeting room emptied quickly, and Draco studiously did not turn to look at Potter, who was obviously loitering at the door, until it was just the two of them and to acknowledge him was unavoidable.

“What?”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “You know, you could at least pretend to be polite to me, Malfoy. Isn’t that what people in offices do?”

“What would you know about what people in offices do? You’re an Auror.” Draco waited for Potter to move, and when he did not, pushed past the git with an audible huff. 

“I’m not an Auror anymore, Malfoy...hey! I’m still talking to you!”

“Well, try to do it while walking, Potter, if you think you can manage both things at once. I’m busy.”

Potter jogged into step beside him, and Draco took care not to spare so much as a glance in his direction. “Why do you resent my presence so much?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Do you mean in this department, or in the universe generally?” They had made it to Draco’s office door. Fishing his wand from the sleeves of his robes, he released the lock, and huffed again when Potter followed him in and made himself at home on Draco’s guest chair. With deeply felt irritation, Draco removed his outer robe, hung it neatly on the hook beside the door, and took his own seat on the other side of the desk.

“Let’s start with in the department.” Potter seemed amused. “I know we’ve had our differences, but I’ve been trying to be cooperative since I came on board.”

Draco sneered. “I agree, you’ve been _very_ trying.” 

“Oh, have a day off, would you Malfoy?” Potter had spotted the tin of paperclips on Draco’s desk, and was reaching for the lid. Draco’s wand had rapped Potter hard across the knuckles before his brain even registered the command to do so, and Potter let out a yowl of pain. “What was that for?” He rubbed his other hand hard over his now red fingers. “I just wanted to know how you get them all to sit so perfectly in their place without getting caught in a great big tangle, that’s all!”

“It’s called magic. You may be familiar with it from such places as our seven years at Hogwarts, or your current job in the Ministry of Magic.” Draco waved his wand in Potter’s face. “Don’t touch anything in my office, Potter. You’re a fright. You have ink on your fingers already, and it’s only a quarter after seven. How does that even happen? You’re yet to actually pick up a quill today, I’m sure.”

Potter looked at his hand again, and rubbed at a splodge of blue along the side of one forefinger. “Well, it’s probably there from yesterday, and if I can’t budge it, it’s probably not going to rub off onto your precious stationery anytime soon, which, by the way, you are very weirdly attached to. Now come on, Malfoy. Why don’t you tell me why you’re actually annoyed with me so we can sort it out instead of shouting at each other every day.” 

Draco sighed heavily. He drew his wand again and closed his office door with a quiet swish. Serious talks with Potter were activities he had always sought strenuously to avoid. “You’re a consultant, Potter. You waltzed in here when you decided you didn’t want to be an Auror anymore, and Scrivener practically fell over himself to offer you the third most senior position in the department-”

“Actually, it’s equal second, I don’t report to you-”

“As I was _saying_. I worked hard to get where I am, for many years-”

Potter leaned forward in his chair. “I think I worked pretty hard myself, Malfoy – being an Auror isn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

“Will you _stop_ interrupting!” Potter raised his hands in capitulation. “I’m sure you worked very hard, Potter, in fact I have no doubt you could have been the king of the Aurors if you hadn’t quit the Corps. But you didn’t. Instead, you had the sudden urge to migrate to my little patch of the Ministry and you made yourself at home. You’ve bypassed the natural hierarchy and went straight to the top with practically no experience, and now I’m stuck trying to navigate around you to get the work of this department done, while Undersecretary Scrivener stares at you across the boardroom table with hearts in his eyes!”

Potter still had his hands raised in surrender. “Don’t shoot, Malfoy! How about you put the wand down, and listen to my side of the story for a minute?” Draco looked at his right hand, and found with some surprise that it was clenched in a fist around his wand in a distinctly threatening fashion. He set the wand down on the blotter, while Potter nodded at him encouragingly. “Good. Okay. Well, for a start, the Auror’s already have a king, and he comes with his own nifty little song, which I would have thought you would have remembered rather well from school.” Draco simply stared at Potter until he continued. “Okay,” he repeated. “Not my best joke, I’ll wear that. But Malfoy, what’s the real problem, here? Is it that you don’t like sharing the power? I didn’t come here to overthrow you, or to annoy you, as much as you may like to believe I did. Magical Games and Sport just seemed like a natural choice for someone like me.”

“Yes, public recreation and amusement _is_ the logical next step for a former war hero, trained by specialists to subdue and arrest criminals, and every now and again kill a person. How silly of me.”

Potter shrugged. “I like sports.”

Draco stared at him again. “Yes, Potter, and I like a clean office, but you don’t see me pushing house elves over to get to a mop and broom, do you.”

“Malfoy,” Potter seemed amused. “That’s not really the same thing. I think you’re well aware that I ran into Scrivener at one of Ginny’s press junkets for the Harpies. He thought I might make a decent security consultant, and I thought I would too – nearly ten years in the Corps. I might know a thing or two about security, you know.”

Draco looked at his inkwell, and considered throwing it at Potter’s head. “My problem is not that you don’t know enough about security. My problem is that Scrivener idolises you, and your complete lack of understanding of office politics. Do you even know whose job it was to think about security, before our fearless leader appointed a security consultant?” Potter looked blank. “Me. It was me, Potter.”

“So...you’re upset that I took responsibility away from you?” Potter transitioned from blank to confused. “But you’ve got so much work to do already, I thought you would have been happy to have less on your plate.”

“Potter – you haven’t _lessened_ my workload! You’ve increased it! Do you know what happens any time you even express the mildest of concerns that there may be any sort of security issue at an event? Scrivener tries to cancel it! And then what do I have to do? Run around behind him, trying to smooth things over, wearing green like a bloody twit with a pocketful of butterscotch doing my best not to say ‘canoe’ while persuading him that a gobstones tournament is not tantamount to lining innocent children up in a firing squad!”

Potter took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “Okay. So there are several things I want to address here. Firstly, why are you saying ‘canoe’ so often? Secondly, I’m sure you cope well enough with the green, considering how well you managed being all but smothered in it in Slytherin house for all those years in school, and don’t pretend you don’t know very well that it suits you. And third, doesn’t Scrivener understand that my risk reports are just recommendations for improvements? I mean, nearly all of the problems I identify with any given proposal can be easily rectified with a few amendments. In fact, the only proposal I’ve opposed outright in recent memory was the reinstatement of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, which in hindsight sounds a lot like it might have been one of your dummy suggestions to use up one of the Undersecretary’s two ‘no’s...”

Draco sneered. “Catching up at last, are we? Potter, this is precisely why your presence on this team fills me with irritation. If _you_ had spent the last nearly ten years working your way up in this department from the bottom as I have, you would have learned, through hard work and indescribable frustration, how this place works and how to keep things running smoothly despite the Undersecretary’s best efforts to fuck it all up. You would know that trying to apply a rational argument like ‘surely he understands these are suggestions’ to the least rational man in the wizarding world is an utter waste of time, in the manner of squeezing blood from a stone, or nailing a jelly to the wall.” 

“Well - _sorry_!” Potter said with exasperation. “I can’t go back in time and change that! I could, however, have altered my approach if you’d only mentioned something earlier, Malfoy. Why didn’t you just call a meeting with me to discuss it? I’ve been working here for six months and you’ve never said a word about it.”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again. Well. He hadn’t expected Potter to be quite so willing to cooperate. Draco cleared his throat. “Frankly, at first I thought you were doing it on purpose, just to frustrate me.”

Potter shook his head. “Oh, Malfoy. So you thought I would deprive every witch and wizard in Britain some of their most beloved pastimes, just to annoy _you_. I hate to burst your bubble-”

“Yes, thank you, I do realise _now_ that was an unreasonable notion and I didn’t say I still thought that was true.” Draco glared at him. “And thank you for making it sound even more absurd aloud. But that aside, I really didn’t think you would be able to compromise – don’t make that face. We hardly have a history of cooperation or trust, do we?”

“Malfoy,” Potter leaned back in his chair again and replaced his glasses. There were fingerprints on the left lens, and Draco tried not to fixate on it. His fingertips felt itchy. “You have to stop judging me by what my seventeen-year-old self might have done. It’s been a long time since I was that kid. I’ve moved on. I’m thirty-one, although I understand why my youthful good looks might have confused you.”

“Youthful? Try middle aged.”

Potter extended a single finger. “You’re more than a month older than me, you prat.”

“How dare you,” Draco said, and Potter grinned at him, orange, flaky pasty smile gone, and charming white one back where it belonged. He felt his neck heating up, and Draco cleared his throat and looked down at his desk, brushing away a non-existent speck of dust and straightening an already perfectly square blotter. “Well, Potter, don’t just sit there looking foolish. If we’re going to be working together for good instead of evil, then we better get on with it before the big meeting or I’ll have to explain to Pansy’s children why there’s no ice skating this winter, and Uncle Draco will be in a great deal of trouble.”

Potter laughed, and it was even more annoyingly attractive than his pasty-less smile. “Alright, I’ll go get my risk assessment reports. May I spare a minute to get a cup of tea, though? I promise you that I’ll be next to useless if I don’t have one soon.”

“You’re next to useless already, Potter,” Draco said, refusing to look at him anymore, instead opening his desk drawer and retrieving his folio of proposals for the impending meeting. “Be back here in five minutes.”

“You’re not my boss, Malfoy!” Potter was already out the door.

“Yet!” Draco called after him. “Prat,” he muttered, already re-sorting the files and putting aside the green ones to discuss with Potter on his return. Draco didn’t want to get his hopes up, but he suddenly had a good feeling about the upcoming quarter. As long as Potter came through in the meeting, and Wedderburn could resist the hard ‘k’s, of course.

 

_December 19, 2011_

 

Draco strode brusquely along the corridor, hardly pausing except to reach out a hand to adjust a lopsided ornament or a crooked garland of holly on his way past. Celestina Warbeck’s latest Christmas album piped softly though the entire floor, through the whole Ministry as far as Draco could tell, and he thought perhaps that if he heard another chorus of _‘All I Want For Christmas Is Your Hot Chocolate Heart’_ , he may in fact throw himself into the Fountain of Magical Brethren in the Atrium and hope he drowned quickly.

The door to Potter’s office was open, so Draco rapped his knuckles thrice on the door frame, and stepped inside. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Potter, are you an Orthodox Slob, or do you just observe the major feast days?”

Potter made a hand gesture that was not very festive at all. “You look like you just sucked a lemon. What’s the problem?” He didn’t bother to invite Draco to sit, not that Draco would have waited for such an invitation anyway. He pushed a pile of tinsel off the spare seat with the tip of his wand, and felt his face draw even more tightly into a disapproving pucker when a half-eaten piece of shortbread was revealed underneath. “Oh! I wondered where that got to!” Potter looked pleased, and leaned over the desk to snatch up the biscuit, taking a huge bite to Draco’s great horror. “Sit, already. You’re making the place look untidy.”

Draco slowly removed his handkerchief from his robe pocket, and laid it across the seat of the chair. “How dare you. And as always, Potter, you are a disgrace.”

Potter waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, have a day off, would you. What happened? The last time you made that face, we’d lost the bid for the 2015 Headless Hunt World Head Polo Championships to France.”

Draco groaned. “Don’t remind me, I’m still upset over it. This is not in that league, thankfully. I think I’m just more morose than usual because of this fucking relentless music.” He pointed his wand at a stack of papers near the corner of Potter’s desk, and they shivered briefly before re-arranging themselves in the correct, neat order. He felt slightly better. “Anyway, I’m just running the numbers for the St. Eligius Cup next May. You remember that Abraxans only drink single malt whiskey? Well, I need to have the proposal done in time for the January budget meeting, but there was an explosion last week at the Penderyn distillery, which is the only single malt manufacturer authorised to officially supply winged horse races in Britain, and now the price per barrel of whiskey has gone up by two hundred percent. If we go ahead with the Cup under these conditions, we either won’t be able to afford any meat to feed the Thestral’s, or we’ll have to divert funds from something else and I can honestly see the Summer Swim program getting the cut.”

Potter scratched his chin. “What would it take to get another distillery authorised?”

“A miracle, to be perfectly honest. It’s an issue of tradition, and I can almost guarantee I could spend the better part of a year working my way through the bureaucracy and red tape before I even came close to an outcome.” Draco poked a nearby cup with the tip of his wand, and the tea stains disappeared.

“Is that your way of hinting you’d like a cuppa?”

“No. But I’ll take one if you’re having one.”

Potter snorted. “Of course I’m having one.” He pulled open the drawer of a filing cabinet and lifted out a teapot, which wore a bobbly orange knitted cosy that bore the distinct hallmarks of a Molly Weasley creation. 

“Do I even want to know why your teapot is in your filing cabinet?”

“Oh, right,” Potter tapped the side of the pot with his wand, and steam began to pour from the spout. “I’ve knocked it off my desk a few times, it’s better off in there. The charm to keep the tea at the perfect temperature without stewing the leaves is actually kind of fiddly, a real pain in the arse to have to re-cast all the time.” Potter poured Draco a cup, then retrieved his own from beneath an assortment of balled up parchment. “So I take it postponing the Cup itself is out of the question?”

“Absolutely. We’d have every pureblood in the British Isles with a thoroughbred Granian calling for your head.” Draco took an experimental sip of tea, and found it, as promised, exactly the perfect temperature. “I don’t want to think about this anymore. It’s almost five o’clock.”

Potter had already drained his tea, and was pouring a second cup. “Going to the Christmas party?”

Draco moaned. “God, no. I’ve got a terribly important late afternoon meeting that day.”

Potter raised his eyebrows. “Really.”

“Yes, you can check my calendar. It clearly says ‘Brandy Alexander’ at 4.30pm.” Potter snorted his laughter into his tea, and Draco maintained an expression of determined innocence. “Very difficult to re-schedule, that one. Quite a shame.”

“Well, you’re a professional and I suppose it wouldn’t do to disappoint a potential corporate sponsor.”

Draco looked at Potter for a long moment. He was still grinning, his teacup held close to his chin, the steam curling upwards and ever so slightly fogging his glasses. “Potter, not for the first time I have to wonder whether you’re a genius, or just an extraordinarily lucky idiot.”

Potter sipped his tea. “I never used to think I was lucky – actually I would have said I was probably the most cursed bloke around, but I suppose you don’t survive Voldemort by having bad luck.” Draco cast his eyes around the office for a space to put down his teacup, and finally pushed it back into Potter’s free hand. Potter grabbed it awkwardly, narrowly avoiding a spill. “You’re leaving?”

Draco was already at the door. “Yes.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me why I’m a genius?” Potter’s voice followed Draco back out to the corridor and into the jangle of Christmas carols.

“Don’t hold your breath, Potter.” Draco shouted back. “You’re only a genius if it works.”

 

_March 3, 2012_

 

Draco ran one hand down the front of his dress robes, smoothing away wrinkles that could not possibly exist, considering the enthusiasm with which the fabric had been charmed with anti-creasing spells mere hours earlier. He swallowed the final few inches of champagne in his glass as casually as possible. What he really wanted to do was position himself directly under a barrel of the stuff and shamelessly guzzle until his liver was pickled, or he died of alcoholic poisoning, whichever came first. That, however, was not an option; instead, he had to keep an eye on the circulating wait staff, and their silver trays of glassware filled with golden, fizzing liquid, and carefully arranged circles of canapés. And the Undersecretary. And Potter.

The Ministry ballroom was comfortably full, with hundreds of small, floating candles hovering high above the crowd and radiating a cheery golden glow. The tables were covered in satiny cloths in watery shades of aquamarine, and turquoise, and silver. A four piece band played merrily on the left side of the stage, and a podium draped in more of the silver cloth stood to the right. Above the stage was an enormous banner, the words forming and dissolving again as if made by bubbles: WELCOME TO THE FIRST ANNUAL MINISTRY OF MAGIC ‘SUMMER SWIM’ FUNDRAISING GALA.

Draco tracked Scrivener’s progress across the room. By his calculation, the Undersecretary had already consumed six standard drinks so far, and had eaten almost none of the canapé’s, which was not a good sign. He was wandering rather too close to the Mermish Ambassador’s tank for Draco’s comfort, especially since he had worn a cravat of spectacularly ugly proportions this evening. The last thing Draco wanted was for the Undersecretary to fall in and cause a cross-species political incident, or drown. Actually, the drowning might be just fine by Draco, if he was perfectly fair.

“You – in the shirt,” Draco snapped his fingers and a passing server stopped in his tracks. “I need you to do two things immediately. Firstly, go over to the buffet table and make sure that drunken fool in the orange robes does _not_ lick the sculpted ice centrepiece.” They both followed Draco’s pointed finger, to see a swaying wizard looking amorously at the frozen dolphin with slightly puckered lips. “Secondly, take this tray back to the kitchen and tell the chef that if he would like to cater another Ministry function at any point in the foreseeable future he will do a far better job at the _amuse-bouche_. The asparagus which is supposed to be garnishing this prawn is so limp that it actually looks depressed, and I can assure you, a depressed asparagus amuses nobody’s _bouche_.”

The boy looked nervous. “And, erm...who should I say the message is from?”

“ _Draco Malfoy_ ,” Draco took care to imply dire consequences in every syllable of his name. The boy turned an especially satisfying shade of pale and made haste to the buffet table.

“There’s something about you when you’re barking orders,” Potter said from somewhere just behind Draco’s right shoulder. His breath was warm and distinctly whisky-laced. Draco clamped down on an involuntary shiver before it betrayed him, but could do nothing about the goose bumps which prickled along his nape despite his best efforts. 

“Yes, I’m very scary.” Draco refused to turn and look at Potter, and instead glared across the room to where the waiter was attempting to persuade Orange Robes not to molest the ice sculpture. It was not going well. 

“Hmm – that’s not what came immediately to mind.” A giggling couple jostled past them, and Potter was pushed against Draco’s shoulder. He could feel Potter’s chest pressed hard against his back, and Draco was more determined than ever not to turn his head even an inch, due to the utterly infuriating flush creeping steadily up his neck. It was a source of never ending frustration to him that Potter had this effect; he was a man of thirty, for pity’s sake, thirty-one and three-quarters if you were keeping score, and the days of turning into a sweating, stammering, red-faced, walking erection should be well and truly over. And yet. 

“You look nice,” Potter said, and Draco reached out and snatched a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter, deliberately breaking contact between his shoulder and Potter’s chest. Potter moved to stand beside Draco instead, to his great relief, and sipped from a short, square tumbler of amber liquid. Champagne was Draco’s preferred poison, but whisky and Potter were a disturbingly attractive combination. 

“And I suppose you look less like a street urchin than usual, yourself.” That was perhaps the greatest understatement ever made. Potter looked incredible, in a fine black Muggle tuxedo. He was even wearing cufflinks, for pity’s sake.

“Oh, have a day off, Malfoy.” He sipped his whisky, and Draco did his best not to notice the smooth movement of Potter’s throat, or to gulp his own champagne. “So, I expect you’re going to celebrate my genius in your closing speech, then?” 

Draco snorted into his glass. “I told you, you’re only a genius if this works. Your other option is ‘idiot’.”

“ _Lucky_ idiot, thanks.” Potter turned his infuriatingly charming smile on him. Draco sipped his drink determinedly. 

“ We’ll see when the donations have been tallied in full at midnight, and if we’ve met or exceeded the target, I will gladly acknowledge your so-called genius.”

“That was a nice touch, by the way,” Potter gestured toward the enormous hourglass filled with glittering gemstones in the very centre of the ballroom. As donors dropped donation pledges written on squares of white card into the collection box in front of the hourglass, a corresponding shower of gems fell into the lower bulb. “Just like Hogwarts.”

Draco nodded. “That was precisely the point. I wanted to invoke memories of childhood. Swimming in the Hogwarts lake, that sort of thing.”

“You’re good at all this.”

“Hm. I suppose the tone of surprise is only slightly offensive.” Draco watched as a handful of gems rained down into the bottom of the hourglass. “I do wish that thing would fill up a little quicker, however.”

Potter laid his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Ah, and here is where _I_ come in handy. I’ve never told you Malfoy, but I have a hidden talent. I can guilt people into donating money to charities. It’s kind of amazing, actually.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Really. Any other hidden talents, or is this the only one?”

Potter’s fingers pressed into Draco’s shoulder, and Potter grinned at him in a way that made his throat immediately dry. Draco took a quick swig of his drink, which was getting distressingly low. “None that I can demonstrate in public, but I’d be happy to show you privately a bit later?” Draco choked on a mouthful of bubbles, and Potter grinned even more, and guided him by the shoulder toward a cluster of nearby guests. “These old farts look like they have a few galleons to spare,” Potter murmured directly into Draco’s ear. Draco, for his part, was completely unable to reply. “Ladies, gentlemen; thank you so much for coming tonight. Have you all met Draco Malfoy?” Draco applied his most genuine smile, and set about shaking hands and murmuring ‘hello’ as if a reel of completely inappropriate visions of Potter and his potentially hidden talents were not playing at high speed in his head. “Draco is responsible for this wonderful evening,” Potter gestured around them, and the old witches cooed. “I dare say, he’ll make a terrific Undersecretary when Mr Scrivener retires. I certainly wouldn’t object to being under Draco.” Potter turned to Draco with an enormous grin. “Of course, there’s always a chance he may end up under _me_.” Draco could only stare at Potter. Speaking was out of the question; firstly, what would he say, and secondly, he was fairly certain his blush was nearing combustible proportions, and it was very important to concentrate on _not_ exploding into flames at his very first Summer Swim charity gala. 

As it turned out, Potter had not been completely exaggerating when he claimed he was excellent at soliciting donations. It was quite something, actually, and Draco allowed Potter to guide him from group to group, the hand on his shoulder dropping by degrees until it was a hand on his waist. Draco tried to remain focused on the conversation, and not on the warm pressure of Potter’s palm, his thumb pressing ever so slightly into Draco’s hip every now and again. 

“Yes...well, you probably know the story, I suppose. It’s been well covered in the press – my tragic childhood.” The ladies clucked in sympathy, swiping away tears with lacy handkerchiefs, and the gentlemen murmured somberly. “Of course, my situation was a bit different to most, but when I think about how something like the Summer Swim program could have changed my childhood experience...making friends, having fun, an escape from things at home. All while learning something valuable like swimming and water safety...well. What was it all for, if not for the next generation of kids, am I right?” 

Gems rattled into the hourglass, and Draco extracted himself from Potter’s grasp momentarily. From the relative safety of the buffet table, Draco nibbled on a vol-au-vent and watched Potter manipulate his audience. Was that what he was doing to Draco, as well? Potter caught his eye, and winked at Draco. He felt warm, and a little giddy. Perhaps he was manipulating him, but to what end? Potter was neither political nor ambitious, unless he had an incredibly obscure and slow moving plan in action. And should he be appointed by Scrivener as his replacement at some future point, well it was hardly the worst thing that could happen. Frankly, as long as Scrivener was out of the way Draco didn’t give a fuck who he worked for, and he had been silently preparing himself for the prospect of Potter as Undersecretary since his third week in the department. 

Nor did it make any sense that Potter might be acting like this just to stitch Draco up. For a start, he would know that this would immediately destroy any sort of cooperative working relationship they had formed over the last six months. Draco found himself staring deeply into the frozen eye of the sculpted ice dolphin at the buffet. Potter might not be ambitious but he liked his job, and had always wanted to do well at it. But more than that, Draco was fairly certain that Potter wouldn’t do something so needlessly cruel, not after all he had been through himself when the gossip rags had caught hold of the story behind his and Ginny Weasley’s break up so many years earlier. 

That left...what? Perhaps Potter was just a little drunk and flirty. That was certainly plausible, as Potter had been making impressive progress through the open bar.

Or, he was serious. 

“Its eye kind of watches you no matter where you go, doesn’t it.” Potter moved into place beside Draco, just slightly too close to be casual. “Maybe our frozen friend is annoyed with you for making his beak look so much like a phallus.”

Draco stared at it, his eyes widening in horror. “Oh good grief. It does, doesn’t it.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “This explains why Orange Robes was so determined to get his lips on it, at least.”

Potter laughed, and popped a vol-au-vent in his mouth whole. There were a few flakes of pastry on the lapel of his jacket, and Draco’s fingers itched to brush them away. “This thing – what is this thing?” He popped another into his mouth, and a shower of crumbs followed.

“Vol-au-vent,” Draco said distractedly, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief.

“Mmmf. So good. This whole thing has been good, Malfoy, amazing actually. I’d never realised what goes into organising something like this from behind the scenes.” Potter put his hand on Draco’s shoulder again, and his stomach swooped. “I didn’t mean it to sound insulting before – I just meant, well, you’re really good at this stuff.”

“Thank you, Potter.” Draco brushed away the crumbs on Potter’s front with quick, efficient swipes of his hanky. Potter’s hand slid down Draco’s arm to clasp loosely around his wrist. His fingers were warm on Draco’s skin. He shivered anyway.

“You know, they say that grooming another person is a sign of intimacy and possession.”

“I’ve heard this hypothesis before,” Draco said, feeling his blush make a sneaking return up his neck. Potter smiled, one of his horrible, charming smiles, and brushed two fingers across Draco’s temple. “What was that?”

“Just doing my part,” Potter grinned. “There was a hair.”

“How dare you,” Draco said. “If I had a hair out of place, I’d know about it.” Potter threw back his head and laughed, and Draco wondered what other people were thinking, if they were looking at them, if people had noticed that Harry Potter was all but holding Draco’s hand, in front of a sculpted ice centrepiece with a giant frozen cock on it instead of a dolphin’s beak. 

“I was thinking,” Potter said, his thumb making circles on the inside of Draco’s wrist. “Maybe we should have a bit of a dance. To celebrate our success – the hourglass is full.” Draco turned his head dazedly to find that the hourglass had indeed been filled, and gems continued to clatter down into the narrow neck of the thing, and were starting to pile up in the upper bulb. “I’m not very good at it, and I actually kind of hate it, but I thought you would probably be quite good, and you might like to.” Potter cleared his throat slightly. “Or, if you don’t, then maybe we can get a drink and have a quiet chat out on the balcony instead.” Draco looked at Potter, and Potter smiled at him, almost shyly. 

“I don’t really dance,” Draco lied, and Potter’s smile widened.

There was a shriek, a crash, then a collective gasp, and finally, a noisy splash, and Draco knew what he would see before he even turned around. A server had been knocked flat on her rear, and was surrounded by miniature dill pancakes topped with salmon. There were strands of garnish in her hair. Undersecretary Scrivener, presumably having collided with her some seconds earlier, had subsequently tumbled arse over tit into the Mermish Ambassador’s tank, and there resided, looking perplexed and more than a little drunk, while the Ambassador squawked in indignation.

“That _fucking wanker,_ ” Draco sighed. “I’m going to have to-”

“Yeah, of course,” Potter said. “Can I do anything?”

“If you could try and smooth things over with the Ambassador?” Potter nodded. Two of the burlier waiters were hauling Scrivener out of the tank by the underarms. He was getting shouty.

“Yeah, of course,” Potter repeated, and he squeezed Draco’s wrist once before letting go. “I know him from a while back. Later though, right?”

Draco gave Potter a small smile. There wouldn’t be a ‘later’, Draco could already tell. “I’ll see you then.”

 

_March 4, 2012_

 

Half-nine in the Department of Magical Games and Sport had never been so quiet. Draco had agonised over the decision to hold the gala on a Thursday night, but in the end the unusually heavy schedule of fundraisers, festivals and balls that month made the decision for him. As a result, Draco had given the department staff the following day off – there was a high probability of absenteeism due to hangovers anyway, and anyone who did show up would probably have wasted most of the day with gala-related gossip. At least this way, he could score a few points with his people, and minimise discussion of any impromptu swimming by senior staff, and certainly no scuttlebutt about any other department managers who may or may not have been almost holding hands. Plus, Scrivener was almost guaranteed to call in sick anyway, so there was really no reason for anybody to make an appearance on Friday.

Except Draco. The Undersecretary had been in top form the previous evening, dripping wet and hopping mad, and yelling at Draco at the very top of his lungs for having the carelessness and lack of foresight not to install a safety fence around the perimeter of the Mermish Ambassador’s tank so that innocent guests like himself would not have to suffer the indignity of falling in and nearly drowning. There was no point in using logic to respond; Draco simply nodded, and accepted it. A fence would have effectively isolated the Ambassador of course, and no other guests had been _so_ astronomically drunk that they had been in any danger of falling in – in fact, Draco was still not entirely sure how the Undersecretary had managed it, but he was wearing a cravat that evening, and that meant that any disaster could, and often would, happen.

Draco’s task for Friday, therefore, was to prepare an exhaustive report on the event including recommendations for safety improvements at future fundraisers, confirm the final tally of donations, and revise the Summer Swim program budget in order to present it all to Scrivener on Monday while still leaving enough time to be chastised again for as long as Scrivener felt like it. Draco sighed, and the sound echoed through the corridor, along with the clip of his heels on the hard floor. He really did wonder, sometimes, what he was doing in this department, working for such an extraordinarily incompetent fuckwit after so many years. He’d had offers. He could have had a nice little career in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Nobody had a problem with hard ‘k’ sounds there, to the best of his knowledge.

Draco was deep in a fantasy about an alternate future in which he was happily employed at the International Magical Trading Standards Body, perhaps overseeing the import and export guidelines for wands and wand materials, when he rounded a corner and caught sight of Potter exiting the elevator at the far end of the hall. Draco’s stomach lurched. Potter held a take away cup in one hand, and looked distinctly rumpled. It was irritatingly attractive. 

Potter had not spotted Draco yet; he was busily tipping his head back, presumably savouring the final drops of what was most certainly tea from his upturned paper cup. Draco considered ducking into the nearest office, cupboard, or quite frankly behind a potted plant, and hiding. But that was absurd. Really, what was the worst that could happen? Potter could apologise for being drunk and flirty, and they would both laugh it off and forget about it. Well, Draco wouldn’t really forget about it, but at least the wild fantasy that there might be something there between them could be put to bed. So to speak. He would do his best to be casual, and dismissive, as if it was not a big deal at all, and things like that happened to Draco all the time. He could totally maintain his dignity.

Although. Technically, Potter had the upper hand in this situation; he had been much more inebriated than Draco, and could therefore excuse his overly friendly behaviour quite easily. Draco had hardly been pissed at all, and had still gone along with it, so this was rather more embarrassing for him. Actually, the more Draco thought about it, the less absurd hiding from Potter seemed, after all.

Draco was just veering sharply towards a particularly bushy fern, when Potter did it. He prised the plastic lid from the take away cup, pulled out what was clearly a very soggy tea bag, considered it for a moment, and then put it in his mouth. The sharp, sucking noise was loud in the otherwise silent corridor, and Potter closed his eyes and made a happy sound, looking very much like a cat who had caught a mouse, the bedraggled cotton string of the tea bag hanging from one corner of Potter’s mouth like a skinny white tail. Draco felt the smile break across his face. _Excellent._ The upper hand was his again. He could absolutely pull off casual and dismissive now that he had caught Potter sucking on a lukewarm tea bag.

“’Morning, Potter.”

With great amusement, Draco watched Potter’s eyes pop open, and the tea bag was hastily removed.

“Malfoy – hi. That wasn’t what it looked like.”

Draco smiled at Potter benevolently. “It looked like you had a tea bag in your mouth.”

Potter went slightly red, and then grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, okay. But I don’t do that all the time, or anything.”

Draco smiled even more widely, and shook his head. “No. Of course you don’t. I’m sure this was the very first time.” Draco resumed his original course toward his own office, and Potter jogged along the hall to catch up.

“Okay, so I’m a bit hungover then, and it seemed like a reasonable move,” Draco made unconvincing agreeing noises as he unlocked his office door. “I _like_ tea!”

“Yes, very much I can see.”

“Oh, have a bloody day off, Malfoy!” Potter was laughing out loud now, and didn’t seem embarrassed at all. “That smirk of yours.”

Draco sat at his desk and schooled his face into the picture of innocence, or at least, as close to innocence as his face might ever get. “What smirk? How dare you.”

Potter dropped into the other seat. “You know the one. That irresistible one, where you look half evil, half adorable at the same time.” Draco felt his face heat, and Potter delivered a double whammy of charming grin, and wink. A deadly combination, as far as Draco was concerned. “I like it when you blush.”

Draco blinked for a moment, then cleared what was now a very dry throat. “What are you doing, Potter?” 

Potter looked at him seriously. “I’m flirting with you in a very direct and cheesy way. I’ve tried to win you over with subtlety, but you seem determined to ignore me.”

“I – well, maybe I’ve ignored you because I don’t like you.”

Potter grinned at him. “Oh, you like me alright. Don’t try to pretend you haven’t been fighting this since the day I joined the team. You’re very good at it, except for the blushing – which I’m all for, don’t get me wrong.”

“How dare you,” Draco said, his voice cracking slightly in the middle. Potter got up and made his way around the desk, and sat on the edge right beside Draco’s chair. Draco swallowed. Potter pushed Draco’s chair back from the desk with his foot, and leaned on the arm rest, his arms effectively trapping Draco in his seat, his frustratingly green stare apparently impossible to resist.

“What’s the problem, Malfoy? I fancy you, you fancy me, we’re consenting adults...”

Potter’s face was very close. He could smell the tea on his breath. “I – it’s a conflict of interest...workplace affairs are against the rules-”

“So, I promise I’ll resign if things go badly.”

“This _will_ end badly Potter, you have to know that.”

All Draco could see now were Potter’s eyes. The very edge of Potter’s nose touched his, and Draco held his breath. “How could I possibly know that, when you haven’t even let me kiss you?”

In a last ditch effort to find his voice, Draco stammered. “Someone could walk in...”

Without moving his hands or reaching for his wand, or so much as blinking, Potter had the office door slam shut, and the lock slid home with an audible click shortly after. “Any other objections?” Potter’s voice was soft and a little rough. Draco shook his head once, and closed his eyes as Potter’s lips met his.

Unsurprisingly, Potter’s mouth was warm and tasted strongly of tea. Draco had given up all pretense of resistance as soon as Potter’s mouth had pressed to his, and he no longer cared what Potter might think as he took a fistful of Potter’s robes and pulled him closer. For his part, Potter certainly didn’t seem to have a problem with the idea; he slid directly onto Draco’s lap, his legs splayed on either side of Draco’s thighs, and the chair creaked as Potter proceeded to press Draco into the leather with his lips, his tongue, and most of his body. Months of repressed yearning to touch, to grab, surged upward from Draco’s very toes, and he found himself with handfuls of Potter, a bit of thigh in his left hand and a handful of bicep in his right, and Potter had his fingers in Draco’s hair and on his neck, and his lips on his throat, and his teeth as well, and before he really knew it Draco was pushing Potter backward off the chair and onto the office floor. 

“Yes,” Potter’s voice was obscene, and he pulled Draco down on top of him, legs parting and wrapping around Draco’s hips. “I knew it. I knew I was right about you. You fancy the _pants_ off me.”

“Shut up,” Draco said against Potter’s throat. “If you’re talking then you obviously don’t have enough to do with your mouth.”

Potter moaned theatrically. “Unf. There’s something about you when you’re barking orders, Malfoy.” That was about all Potter had time to say, because Draco had decided to shut him up directly with his tongue. Draco could feel Potter’s grin against his own lips, and so bit down, nipping Potter’s lower lip ever so slightly between sharp teeth, and grinning himself at the squawk of protest.

They pushed and pulled at each other; clothing was wrenched from shoulders and arms, belts hastily unbuckled and dragged through loops. Potter seemed particularly skilled at clutching Draco to his body, rubbing himself hard against any part of Draco he could find, whilst simultaneously divesting Draco of his clothing at a steady pace. It was almost as if he had a very useful extra pair of hands, Draco thought wildly, his head spinning from oxygen deprivation and the sheer lack of blood in most parts of his body but one. The moment came when they were almost entirely naked; Draco’s trousers were caught in a bunch around an ankle, and he was fairly sure Potter’s wristwatch was caught in the cuff of one shirtsleeve. There was nothing between them but a thin sheen of sweat, and Draco breathed hard against Potter’s throat, the pulse which beat against his lips echoed in the heated thrum of Potter’s cock pressed firmly into his hip.

“Are we really about to do this, Potter? On my office rug?”

Potter nodded enthusiastically. “You bet we are. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve pictured you pinning me to the floor just like this...or me bending you over your spick and span desk and fucking you ‘til it’s all messy with come.” Potter rolled his hips and Draco moaned. “Are you telling me you’ve never thought about it?”

Draco had, in fact, entertained several similar thoughts on more than a few occasions, but he had also fantasised about pushing Scrivener off the Hogwarts astronomy tower quite a number of times as well, and that would certainly be an extremely poor life decision in anybody’s book. He wasn’t entirely certain that shagging Potter would not ultimately lead to disaster. With effort, Draco stilled, and Potter paused in his mission to devour Draco’s collarbone, and met his gaze. Draco wasn’t sure how to explain himself, but he needed Potter to know that if this all imploded…his job, the relatively new relationship they had forged together that even Draco would describe as friendship at this point. Potter looked up at him, waiting, and Draco opened his mouth and shut it again twice.

“I – Potter, there are only two things that I have, that I earned all by myself; my N.E.W.T. marks, and this job. Everything else was given to me by somebody. Obviously, I want you,” Draco felt his face heat up again. “But if things go wrong between us, I don’t think I could bear to stay, and that’s – well, that’s a lot to lose all at once.” Potter stopped him by pulling his face gently down to his own, and kissing him hard, until Draco had forgotten what they had been doing before the kiss had begun, and had just about forgotten everything else as well, including his own name. With a twist of his hips, Potter had Draco on his back, and he eased his thighs apart and settled between them before finally breaking the kiss. 

“Malfoy, as you well know, I’m an excellent risk assessment consultant – even you have to admit that.” Potter grinned at him. “And I have analysed the potential risk in this proposition very thoroughly. While I agree there is a lot at stake here, I feel confident that this is ultimately a low risk investment that will yield a number of extremely attractive rewards.” Potter grinned again, and dropped his head to kiss Draco once more, this time very softly, and Draco felt his eyes close and everything else fell away as it had before. “Trust me,” Potter said against his lips, and it was a request, rather than a demand. 

“Alright,” Draco said, and Potter kissed him again with his Earl Grey mouth. With those few words, the mood had changed, and it was no longer just another one of their tussles, a flirtation disguised ever more thinly by bickering; with every kiss and touch, Potter was asking Draco to believe in him, and Draco did his best to tell him ‘yes’ with clutching fingers and gasped breaths. He moved down Draco’s body, eyes closed, his hair a sweaty black tangle at his nape and brow. Where his glasses were now was a mystery, as Draco had not even noticed Potter taking them off. Draco forced himself to watch Potter, fighting his instinct to let his eyes droop closed. Potter’s mouth was red and wet, delivering sucks and bites down the length of Draco’s torso, his hands following where his lips had been, and when he sucked on the skin in the hollow of Draco’s hip, he thought he may very well die of it. Death by Potter. Draco wouldn’t mind if it happened this way. He may not have the distinction of being the first wizard to die by Potter’s hand, but he might be the first to die by Potter’s mouth.

Potter’s fingers traced the crease along Draco’s hip and thigh. Draco knew that Potter would touch him, soon, but the agony of waiting even a matter of moments kept his breathing ragged and his nerves raw. As his hand closed around Draco’s prick, Potter opened his eyes and looked at Draco, and Draco felt his heart pound harder. He was sticky with need, and Potter smeared his thumb through the wetness until Draco gasped his name, and in the next moment, he was silent, barely able to breathe as Potter first rubbed the tip of Draco’s prick across his bottom lip, then slid his mouth down the length of it entirely. Draco’s fingers went to Potter’s hair, carding through the damp strands and twisting them around his fingers, and Potter groaned around Draco’s cock, his mouth slick heat and suction, and too much, and not enough, all at once. Potter’s hands gripped him, fingertips pressing hard into his flesh until there was no chance of escaping bruising; one hand was splayed at the base of Draco’s cock, holding him still and alternately gripping, stroking upwards to meet the downward slip-slide of Potter’s mouth. The other grasped Draco’s thigh, had hoisted it up and over Potter’s shoulder, and Draco could feel the slight scratch of stubble on Potter’s jaw on the inside of his thigh, could feel it on Potter’s chin as it scraped Draco’s balls. He was going to fucking come, he could feel it in his spine, in the clenching of his calves, he could feel it burning in his chest as if he had run a marathon. The rug bit at his shoulders and heels as Draco’s spine arched, and Potter knew precisely what was coming, had abandoned Draco’s thigh in favour of a hand between his own while the other pressed Draco’s hip to the floor, and all the while his mouth was a constant, wet pressure, too tight, too hot, too fucking much. Potter didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, and Draco was coming and Potter was taking it all, taking all of him, every drop, every jerk and pulse of his cock, every broken moan and bead of sweat. Then Potter pulled away with a whispered curse, his fist quickening, and Draco felt the hot brand of come on his thighs, and heard Potter say his name on a ragged breath. Draco, for his part, couldn’t imagine ever being able to organise his thoughts enough to ever speak a word again; he suspected the ability had left him at speed along with his orgasm.

Potter arranged himself beside Draco on the rug. Draco could only look at him, a dozen clever remarks ripe in his thoughts and ready to be delivered with a smirk – but instead, Draco just looked at Potter, and Potter smiled at him, white toothed and red cheeked, sweaty and sticky with come, and desperately attractive. Draco smiled back, and hardly spared a thought for how sweaty and come-streaked he was himself. Potter found his spectacles, abandoned in the heat of the moment by Draco’s dustbin, and finally disentangled his wristwatch from his shirtsleeve. He propped his head up on one hand, and just looked at Draco in silence. Eventually, he moved his hand to brush a dampened segment of hair from Draco’s forehead, murmuring something about a hair out of place.

“How dare you,” Draco said, finally finding his voice, and he found Potter’s fingers with his own and wound them together. 

Potter grinned at him. “Oh, have a day off, honestly.” Potter kissed him, and Draco’s eyes drooped closed again, and his heartbeat quickened. “As the second most senior person in this department-”

“Equal second,” Draco interrupted. “I don’t report to you.”

“As I was _saying_. I declare today a Department of Magical Games and Sport holiday, and therefore have dismissed all staff still at the office. No exceptions.” Without dropping Draco’s hand, he used his forefinger to poke Draco in the chest. “That’s you. You’re the last staff member at the office.”

“Thank goodness you’re here to clarify that, Potter. If you would, perhaps you can also explain to me just what I’m supposed to do on my unexpected day off?”

Potter’s lips were already on Draco’s throat, and he rolled over and settled again between Draco’s thighs, which opened for him without hesitation. “I can think of one or two things,” Potter said, and Draco made a noise he would absolutely deny knowledge of later, and lost himself in Potter’s mouth once again.

 

_April 18, 2012_

 

There was an audible hum in Draco’s office, caused chiefly by the swarm of memos circling the air space above Draco’s desk like a flock of noisy birds. He almost didn’t notice it anymore, thanks in part to the Shield charm which had become a necessity to prevent each anxious missive from swooping down and pecking Draco’s head. He was absolutely swamped with work; for every memo he plucked from the fleet above, it seemed another three would arrive. 

Potter stuck his head round Draco’s door at half eleven. “Lunch plans?” He caught sight of the chaos, and swore. “Fucking hell, what happened in here?”

“I’m flat out,” Draco said, without looking up. His quill hand was starting to cramp up, and there was at least another foot left on the draft contract for the annual Quodpot tournament that really had to be finished by the end of the day.

“That’s an understatement. Why didn’t you let me know?” Draco gave him a look, and Potter held up his hands. “Yeah, alright, point taken. Is there anything I can do?”

Draco didn’t need to be asked twice. He levitated a stack of orange files directly into Potter’s arms, where they landed with enough force to push him back a step. “I’ve been putting off meetings with personnel about operations matters for months.” Draco flicked his wand, and about a third of the flying memos swooped toward the door and commenced buzzing around Potter’s head, instead. “There’s a short preamble at the front of each file explaining what the problem is. I’ve scheduled all the appointments in Meeting Room 2 starting at half past twelve, which gives you-” Draco looked at the clock on his desk, then grinned at Potter, “-one hour to prepare.”

Potter looked down at the files in his arms, then up at the cloud of memos. “I feel like I’ve walked into some sort of elaborate trap.”

Draco raised his eyebrows in amusement. “You think I’m that devious? How dare you.” Potter made a face. “Seriously though, I really appreciate this.”

“Hmm. Maybe I deserve a special reward, later.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Get out of my office.” Potter backed out of the room, awkwardly juggling the files and ducking away from the more aggressive memos. “Thank you!” Draco called after him, before closing his door and locking it with a wave of his wand. He fully intended to take complete advantage of this opportunity, effective immediately. He pulled the Quodpot contract closer, and frowned, crossing out several lines and re-writing them.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of parchment and regulations. Draco was almost surprised to see the clock read five o’clock when he finally looked up from his desk, and stretched, his muscles cramped and protesting, and almost every joint cracked noisily. There was a rap at the door, and Draco picked up his wand and opened it, revealing a traumatised-looking Potter on the other side. Every strand of hair on his head was standing on end, and the collar of his robes had become twisted drastically to the right.

“Tea, please,” Potter said weakly, and he shuffled into the office and slumped into the guest chair, shoving the stack of orange files onto the desk as if he couldn’t wait another moment to relinquish them. Draco bit his lip in an effort to supress a smile, and busied himself with tea making duties. When the steaming cup was eventually in Potter’s ink-spattered hands, he finally seemed to cheer up, although only marginally.

“How was today?” Draco asked, producing a packet of chocolate digestives and pushing them across the desk at Potter, who opened it immediately and crammed an entire biscuit into his mouth without delay.

“I had no idea,” Potter said, crumbs showering down on his front and onto the orange files. Draco took a deep breath, and resisted the urge to spell them away immediately. “No idea what I was in for. Do you seriously have to deal with all this rubbish all the time?” He set down his tea and picked up a file. “Derek Parker has a grievance concerning the location of his desk, and the fact that he has had to move said desk on three occasions in the last four years, which he feels is excessive and discriminatory, as Marjorie Pierce has been with the department the same length of time and has never had to move her desk at all.” Potter picked up another file. “Lawlor missed out on a slice of cake at the last birthday morning tea, and says it’s the second time it’s happened but nobody has done anything about getting a bigger cake for future birthday teas. Speaking of tea, Wedderburn says somebody keeps drinking all the soy milk which was supplied specifically for him, as he’s lactose intolerant, and now he either has to miss out on tea, or bring his own soy milk and keep it in his office, which he says is very inconvenient. He has tried putting a sign up, but somebody defaced it with a rather crude drawing suggesting Wedderburn suck – well, I’ll leave it to your imagination.” Draco supressed a snort, and Potter waved yet another file at him. “Bryce Gardner has lodged a formal complaint against the afternoon receptionist-”

“Julie,” Draco supplied, and Potter nodded.

“Right. He claims her recent memo to the department about remembering to empty the shredder was specifically directed at him, and caused him significant embarrassment in front of his peers, and he thinks we should discipline her. Julie, for her part, doesn’t even know who Bryce Gardner is.” Draco could not help laughing out loud by this point, and even Potter looked like he was starting to see the funny side. “My personal favourite though would have to be the request made by Mona Cordwell, whose favourite stapler was taken without her permission, and she wondered whether I might be able to call in a favour at the Auror Corps to see about getting it back.” Potter shook his head in bewilderment. “And those were just the highlights.”

It took Draco several minutes to overcome his laughter, but at least Potter was in good spirits again. “Welcome to the world of senior management, Potter. You’ll soon learn that there is a bottomless pit of agitation and complaint in even the most seemingly content workplace. Someone is always missing out on cake, or stealing a stapler, and everybody wants to have their problem taken seriously. You can hope your staff have a little perspective, but not all of them can see past their own cubicle.”

“Office politics,” Potter sighed, rubbing his neck. Draco nodded.

“It’s not saving the world, but it’s…well. It’s part of the job. What did you tell them?”

“I promised Lawlor we would address the cake issue, and I let Mona Cordwell down gently about the allocation of Department of Magical Law Enforcement resources to missing stationery. She took it well.” Potter reached for another biscuit, and drained his tea. “I didn’t know what to say to Parker, other than to apologise and promise to note it down so he wouldn’t have to move desks again. Wedderburn is now in possession of a concealment spell that he’s quite pleased with, which should take care of the soy milk issue. And Gardner…” Potter winced apologetically. “Well, I might have lost my patience with him a bit.”

“Can’t win them all,” Draco said. He pushed a thick document across the desk. “The good news is, your valiant sacrifice today wasn’t for nothing, and I was able to get the Quodpot contracts sorted on time, as well as complete my evaluation of the proposed updates to the Quidditch League regulations. The bad news is, now you have to go through them as well. My notes are in green.” Potter looked at the regulations forlornly. “Oh, enough with the pathetic face. It’s after five, we can worry about it tomorrow. Besides,” Draco said casually. “I believe there was some discussion about a special reward.”

Potter was like a new man. He sat bolt upright in his seat, and put away his biscuit. “My place, a take away vindaloo for dinner, and a blow job on the settee while the cricket replay is on the big television, and then I get to fuck you in the shower after.”

Draco supressed a smirk. “ _My_ place, Thai food, a blow job on the settee – no cricket – and you get to fuck me in the shower after.”

“Sold,” Potter said, and he was halfway out the door before he’d finished the word. “I’ll get my coat and see you back here in five minutes.”

Draco packed away the biscuits, banished the tea cups and tea pot back to the tea room, and removed every last crumb from his desk and rug; but it was only after he had neatly stacked the orange files and straightened the visitors chair, that Draco realised he had been grinning to himself the whole time, he suspected quite goofily, and that he had been doing quite a lot of that just lately. 

Potter burst back into the room, hair still standing on end. “I was thinking, maybe we should order the Thai for delivery, and you can blow me while we wait? I’m not ashamed to say, I’m slightly afraid of what a stray bit of curry on the tongue might do to my bits, but I really think I deserve that blow job.” Potter caught the expression on Draco’s face, and grinned back. “What?”

“Nothing,” Draco said, and he lifted his robe down from the hook by the door. “Let’s get going. Maybe I’ll let you watch the cricket after we eat.”

Potter looked pleased. “But you hate cricket.”

Draco shrugged, and busied himself closing and locking his door. “Yeah, but I kind of like _you_ , so…”

He didn’t really have an end to that sentence, but it didn’t matter anyway, as Potter had pressed him hard against the office door and seemed to be attempting to kiss the words right out of his mouth, and Draco felt the smile still persisting, and he wondered whether there would be any Thai food or cricket for either of them tonight.

 

_June 1, 2012_

 

Draco stood on the podium, determined not to squint even though the sunlight was glinting off the water directly into his eyes. There were half a dozen giggling children, wriggling around in bathing suits and pinching each other on the step just below him; three of them were Pansy’s brats, adorable, photogenic, and absolutely incapable of sitting still or keeping out of mischief. The press loved them, and Draco wasn’t sure who was getting more attention, the kids at his feet, or Scrivener on the podium beside him, booming out a pretentious sort of speech to open the Summer Swim program that effectively awarded all of the praise to himself, and didn’t mention the rest of the team even in passing. St Adjutor’s Public Baths for Witches and Wizards was full to the brim with members of the media, parents and children, nearly all of the staff from the Department of Magical Games and Sport and a handful of assorted VIP’s.

The Undersecretary finally seemed to be getting to the end of his speech, and Draco leaned down to whisper to the children. “This is your cue, ratbags. Count to three, and then dive in, got it?” Draco needn’t have bothered asking them to count to three; with a shriek, all six immediately bolted to the edge of the pool, to the great amusement of the crowd, and leaped in with varying degrees of skill and grace. Potter was laughing and wiping spots of water from his glasses, and Draco took a deep breath of the crisp, early summer air, and declared the whole thing a complete success. 

“One final word, ladies and gentlemen,” Scrivener boomed. Draco shielded his eyes, and watched the children screeching in the water, a life guard treading water nearby and watching carefully to make sure none of them tried to drown one another. “After a great deal of consideration, I would like to announce my retirement from the Department of Magical Games and Sport.” Draco’s head snapped back to the Undersecretary immediately. _This_ was well and truly off the script, and Draco hadn’t heard even a whisper of such an intention until right this moment. His eyes met Potter’s across the podium, and Potter shook his head. No inkling from his side, either. “Although this is a sad time for me, and my staff,” Draco stared at Potter, and tried not to make any sort of facial expression at all that might betray him. “I am excited to be entering a new chapter of my life, and I am equally excited to announce that my successor, the man who has been my right hand in many ways, is our own Harry Potter!”

Draco saw Potter freeze, and turn slightly grey in the face. The crowd clapped in congratulations, and flashbulbs popped and sparked from left and right as Scrivener threw an arm around Potter and pumped his hand vigorously while grinning like a loon for the cameras. Draco put his hands together and clapped along with the rest of them, aware of the nervous looks darting his way from his staff in the audience. As discreetly as possible, Draco disengaged from the crowd and made his way steadily across the pavilion, his eyes zeroing in on a small white door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’.

Fifteen pairs of bulbous elf eyes looked at Draco in alarm, as he slammed the door open hard enough to cause the hinges to creak ominously. Draco wondered whether there was a polite way of demanding they all get out without actually scaring an elf to death. The laundry room was steamy with fresh washing, round wooden tubs slopping over with soapy water as towels were scrubbed, and churned by invisible hands before being pushed through an enormous wringer, and dozens of clean towels were strung on washing lines which criss-crossed the ceiling, with more fluttering upwards every moment to peg themselves cheerfully to the line. 

The door slammed open a second time, and Potter burst in. “I had no idea, honestly. Are you okay?” Potter’s glasses fogged in the humid air almost instantly, and he took them off and spelled them clear, before replacing them on his nose and staring at Draco with owlish concern.

Draco decided it probably wouldn’t actually kill any elves if he shouted, since they were normally accustomed to being screamed at anyway. “Get out.” They vanished with a collective squeak. Potter hesitated at the door, and Draco rolled his eyes. “Not _you_ , Pinhead.” He came inside and closed the door behind him.

“Draco, I didn’t know,” Potter said again. Draco raised his eyebrows.

“’Draco’, is it? You normally only call me that when my mouth is on your cock. This _must_ be serious.”

Potter sighed. “Come on.” Draco sighed too, and batted petulantly at a towel hanging from a nearby washing line.

“Sorry. I know this wasn’t you, and I’m not even really angry I suppose. Just disappointed.”

Potter came closer, and reached for Draco’s hand, pulling him to his chest. “I learned from very early on that ‘not angry, disappointed’ was code for ‘really fucking angry’. Actually, Hermione’s best spells were perfected while she was disappointed in Ron. Sometimes I think the War might have gone on a bit longer if Ron had been _less_ disappointing during school.”

Draco couldn’t help the small smile that twisted his lips, and Potter grinned back. “I’m sorry I called you ‘Pinhead’. Lashing out.” Potter shrugged it off. “And I don’t want you to think I’d hate working for you, or that you’re not good enough for the job. You are.” Draco sighed again. “I guess I’m just frustrated that I’ve spent ten years jumping through hoops for a man who hasn’t appreciated it for a second.” He let his head fall against Potter’s shoulder with a thunk.

“Well, he’s a first class wanker, as we all know, and anyway, I thought of a plan.”

Draco looked back up at Potter. “When did you have time to think up a plan? It’s been ten minutes!”

Potter grinned, and Draco thought, not for the first time, that it was rather a terrific smile. “The plan is, we let Scrivener retire, I take up the Undersecretary job, and after two days I call a press conference and announce I’m retiring too, and name you my replacement.”

“That…is a ridiculous plan.” Draco shook his head, and couldn’t help smiling at Potter. “Firstly, I don’t want the job badly enough to orchestrate this sort of drama, and secondly, what possible reasons will you give the press for your retirement at the age of thirty?”

“Thirty-two, almost,” Potter corrected. “And I’ll make up some rubbish about wanting to find myself, or spend time with my extended family, or something else that’s warm and fuzzy.”

“But you like your job. You like sports, remember?”

“Yeah. But I also really like _you_ , so…” Potter smiled at him, and Draco felt certain the goofy face was back again. “Besides, I don’t plan on staying retired for long. After a week, you can re-hire me as your security and risk consultant.”

“You are mad,” Draco said fondly. He let Potter put his arms around him, and settled comfortably against his chest. Now that he was used to him, he really couldn’t imagine not having Potter around the office. He really couldn’t remember what it had been like before he’d joined the team, to be honest. “Can I tell you a something no one else knows?”

Potter nodded. “Anything.”

“And you promise not to judge me?”

Potter looked concerned and very serious. “Of course. What’s the matter, Malfoy?”

Draco pressed his lips to the shell of Potter’s ear, and whispered. “Fresh laundry. There’s something about the smell, the bleach, the washing powder.” Draco made a low noise, and pressed Potter back until they collided with a high bench stacked with folded towels. “Fabric softener. Makes me hard.”

“You’re not kidding,” Potter breathed, as Draco ground against his hip, and locked the door with a flick of his wand. 

“Just so we’re clear, I want you to fuck me up against this bench.”

“No, we’re clear,” Potter said, and he commenced divesting Draco of his outer robe. “You’re dirty, you know that?”

Draco sucked on Potter’s neck, and pulled his shirt out of its neat tuck in his trouser waistband. “No, I’m clean, very, very clean. That’s the point.”

“Not for long,” Potter thumbed the button open at the top of Draco’s trousers, and drew down the zip. “I’m about to make you very messy.” It shouldn’t have turned Draco on even more, but somehow, it did. Potter brought their mouths together in a fierce kiss. His mouth was hot and Draco tried not to lose his breath as he chased the fading taste of Darjeeling across Potter’s tongue and lips. Draco’s fingers scratched at the small of Potter’s back, and in reply Potter took hold of Draco’s hips and pushed his trousers, pants and all, the rest of the way down, where they dropped to his ankles. Draco pulled Potter’s shirt over his head so hurriedly, that his glasses were pulled off too, and Potter grinned at him myopically and hoisted Draco closer by lifting him roughly by the arsecheeks. 

“This will do,” Draco moaned, grinding down on Potter’s fabric covered-thigh. “I don’t want to wait. Leave my shirt, and your trousers, and just get your cock out.” Potter made a strangled sound and shoved Draco hurriedly around to face the bench, upsetting a stack of towels that tumbled noiselessly to the floor. Draco grabbed the bevelled edge of the bench for purchase, and shuddered as he heard the tell-tale sound of Potter’s zip being drawn, and his trousers dropping to his feet. “Get on with it, Potter, fuck me – I’m still ready from this morning.”

Potter swore forcefully, and gripped Draco’s hip. “Don’t say things like that, or I’ll come on the backs of your legs before we even get started!”

“I don’t care,” Draco pushed back into Potter’s groin, and they both made embarrassing noises as Potter’s cock, already sticky at the tip and hard as a rock, slid against Draco’s arse. Potter pressed himself against Draco’s body completely, his lips mouthing at Draco’s neck and nipping at his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. Potter’s hands spread over Draco’s hips, slid up and under the hem of his shirt to stroke his stomach, feather light fingertips that teased past the jut of Draco’s erection, hot and leaking where it pressed against his shirt. Draco’s fingers tightened on the edge of the bench. “Touch me,” Draco’s voice was pleading, but he didn’t care. “Come on.”

“I am touching you,” Potter’s voice was throaty in his ear, and his infuriating hands wandered across Draco’s thighs, traced maddening circles into the sensitive skin so close to his balls that Draco wanted to scream. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Yessss,” Draco moaned. “I mean, no! God, Harry, you know what I want,” Draco’s breath stuttered as Potter’s fingers skimmed his prick. “Just give it to me.”

“I will, I will,” Potter soothed, moving one hand to his own cock, dragging it up and down Draco’s crevice. “But I like to hear you beg for it first.”

“I’m not begging – I’m ordering,” Draco pushed back against Potter’s cock and succeeded in catching the ridge of Potter’s cock on the very rim of his hole. Potter hissed. “There’s a difference between the two.”

“Not to me, I like them both.” Potter nudged Draco’s knees with his own, and Draco spread his legs further apart, and curved his spine, opening himself to Potter. He took Draco’s earlobe between his lips and teased it with sharp nips of his teeth, and Potter pressed one hand to the swell of Draco’s arse and traced a thumb over Draco’s entrance; his cock had left a generous smear of wetness on Draco’s skin, which Potter now circled his thumb through, pressing in gently and steadily until he breached him. Draco had only been exaggerating slightly; they had fucked, slowly and lazily, earlier that morning, but Draco was in no mood for slow now. He wanted to feel it, rough and quick. Potter seemed inclined to indulge him, twisting his thumb with quick efficiency but only working Draco just enough, just enough to make it work, to make it feel good, to bring Draco to the edge of rough, and too rough. 

Draco hadn’t stopped urging Potter on, and finally Potter replaced his fingers with his prick again, pressing against Draco like a delicious threat. With a low hiss, Potter pushed in, and Draco actually laughed, a stuttering, breathy noise. 

“Something funny?” Potter’s voice sounded strained, and he drew back from Draco, almost to the very edge, before driving back in with a grunt.

“Not even remotely,” Draco said, and he tried to arch his back even further. “Well, aside from the fact that when you started in the department a bit over a year ago, I wanted to strangle you, and now I all I want is to get my hands around your throat for entirely unrelated reasons.”

“One kink at a time, Malfoy,” Potter said. 

Potter picked up the pace, and Draco threw a hand across the surface of the bench, his palm flat on the table top. Soft towels nudged his fingertips, and he could smell that tantalising mixture of in-wash stain remover and washing powder, a faintly lavender-tinged, soapy aroma, wafting down from the damp, warm towels strung above their heads. Maybe it _was_ a bit weird, but it was doing it for him right now, and that was all that really mattered. He dropped his other hand from its grip on the bench, and wrapped his fingers around his own cock, not fighting the shudder that rippled through him, then rippled through him again as Potter groaned, twisted his hips, and somehow got deeper inside him. Draco felt the breath being fucked out of him with every buck, and Potter had hit his stride, long, fluid thrusts that felt as if they might split Draco apart. Potter was moving in tight, sharp jerks now, and his hand clutched its way from Draco’s hip to meet his in a hot circle around his prick.

“Not long now,” Potter sighed into his neck, his breath hot and moist. “Gonna make a mess of you, Malfoy. I know you love it,” Potter’s fingers tightened around Draco’s, and Draco was whining now. “You love it when I come into your office and make a mess…you love the crumbs, and the bent paperclips…you love it when I stack files crookedly, you love to come along and fix it all up, don’t you?” Draco cried out, a wordless agreement. “You love it most when I make you sweat, make you drip, cover you in spit, lube, when I come on you and in you, and it drips down your skin - _fuck_.” Draco let his fingers drop from his prick and clamp down on the bench again. Potter’s hand stripped his cock in time with each jerk of his hips, and with one swipe of his thumb, deliberate or accidental, the edge of a slight callous on Potter’s knuckle scraped across the head of Draco’s prick. He couldn’t stop the clench which rippled through his entire body, felt himself lock down around Potter for one dizzying moment before his vision greyed, and his orgasm took control, bending his spine til he thought he would simply snap in half. Potter groaned his name and bit down on his shoulder, hard, and Draco felt his hips slam into Draco’s arse once more and hold there, and there was come splashed on his chest, his fingers, and inside him, there was sweat all over him, dripping from his hair, and Draco had never felt so blissfully disgusting in all his life. 

When Potter dragged him down to the floor, Draco at least had the presence of mind to pull a handful of towels with him; he dropped into the spot between Potter’s chest and bicep like he was designed specifically to fit there, and shoved a towel upwards in the general direction of Potter’s face. Quite half-heartedly, he swiped at his own torso, and he could feel Potter doing the same; his arse was aching in the best sort of way, and all Draco wanted to do was stay just as they were, forgetting the house elves who had been so rudely evicted, the mess they had made, forgetting the journalists and families, and staff, and Scrivener, all of whom should still be milling about the grounds of St Adjutor’s. 

“You know, I think the thing I’m most looking forward to when Scrivener retires is being able to say ‘canoe’ again. I really had no idea how often it would come up,” Potter’s voice was lazy and sated. “But it does. It really does.”

“I can use unlined paper again,” Draco said dreamily. “I can wear purple. I can order the mixed platter of danish for staff meetings, and no one will make a fuss about the coffee scrolls.”

“I can finally be under you,” Potter said affectionately. Draco twisted his neck to look up at Potter, who was carding his fingers through Draco’s hair with a smile.

“You don’t really have to do that, you know. I’m happy. Really happy, actually. That was just a silly tantrum, before. Besides, I want to earn it. I don’t like having things just handed to me.”

Potter rolled over and settled above Draco, and leaned down to press a very soft, very gentle kiss to his mouth. “You’ve already earned it. Scrivener’s a fuckwit who wants to curry favour with the ‘famous Harry Potter’, only he doesn’t realise that that bloke pissed off years ago. I don’t want to run the place. I like being a consultant. It’s simpler – not as much of the office politics to worry about.” He grinned at Draco, who frowned up at him.

“You know, you’re very annoying when you’re being charming. I’ve always thought so.”

“Have a day off, Malfoy,” Potter kissed him again, and again, and again.

“How dare you,” Draco tried to say, but his words were mostly muffled by Potter’s lips and tongue. 

 

_June 29, 2012_

 

There was a knock at Draco’s office door. Marjorie Pierce stuck her head in, an odd expression on her face.

“Erm, Mr Malfoy? He says he’s your ten-thirty interview, but I think there must be some sort of-” 

“Thank you, Pierce, send him in.” Draco didn’t bother to look up from his paperwork, even when he heard Mister Ten-Thirty enter the office. “Sit.” He pulled a folio from the pile near his right hand, and flipped it open. “So, you say you have experience, Mister…” Draco looked up, his expression serious. “How is it that you pronounce your name?”

“Potter,” Potter said. “Harry Potter. And yes, I’ve worked in a very similar role, quite recently, actually.”

“I see – reason for leaving?” Potter was wearing purple robes. 

“Ah. Well, my former boss was, well, a difficult personality shall we say, and I decided it might be nice to take some time off, get in touch with the inner me – you know, find myself.”

Draco pinched his lips together, and paged through the folio. “And did you?”

“Find myself? Oh, yes. Very thoroughly.”

“I see,” Draco said. “Your references look excellent. Tell me, Mr Potter…what would you say your biggest weakness is?”

Potter looked thoughtful. “I suppose I’m a little untidy, and some have said I have a strange affection for tea.”

“Greatest strength?”

“I’m very hands on,” Potter smiled innocently, and Draco fought for his deadpan expression.

“Congratulations, Mr Potter – it looks like you are our new Security and Risk Assessment Consultant.” Draco held out his hand, and Potter shook it vigorously.

“I look forward to being under you, Undersecretary Malfoy.”

“It’s a pleasure to have you behind me, Mr Potter.” Draco stood, and escorted Potter to the door. “Pierce will show you to your office, and get you settled in. I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling a meeting for the two of us at three o’clock. You should ensure your calendar is free for the remainder of the day, as I suspect it may be a long one.”

“Hard, too, I expect,” Potter murmured, and even Potter couldn’t keep the smirk away for that one. “I’ll see you at three sharp.” Potter walked away, whistling softly, and Draco glared around the corridor at the various gawking members of staff who seemed to magically have found business there, including Morgan, who was holding an Extendable Ear, and looking guilty. 

“Hasn’t anybody work to do? Considering the Olympic Torch Relay will be passing through Diagon Alley in a matter of weeks, I would have thought the Department of Magical Games and Sport _might_ be a trifle busy.” They scattered like ants, and Draco went back into his office, closing the door before allowing his grin to finally break free. He checked his watch, frowned, and then returned to his desk to check his calendar, picking up a quill to scribble out a memo. 

_Potter,_  
_On further reflection, I must bring forward our meeting to noon today. Apologies for the inconvenience._  
_Malfoy._

He sent the memo fluttering away, and pulled a roll of parchment closer to him. Draft regulations for the proposed national Exploding Snap championships. They promised to be both long and tedious. Draco smiled again, and dipped his quill in green ink. He loved his job.


End file.
